Fat Bottomed Gays
This post is brought to you by a delightful Sunday morning americano at Delany’s Coffee House on Denman Street.
Finding a neighbourhood coffee shop in Vancouver that is not owned by a global corporation is almost impossible. That is why Delany’s is the ultimate respite for a double espresso soul such as my self. It is warm, cozy, and always packed with eligible gay men. Now that I am back on the market, I decided this would be the perfect place to not only gain exposure; but also establish myself as an up-and-coming slim writer.
Speaking of waistlines, I had a mandatory fitness assessment yesterday at Trevor Linden’s “Club 16.” Facing the water and mountains, this gym is the perfect place to jog on the treadmill and watch the float planes take off and land. Upon registration last week, I was scheduled an appointment with a personal trainer to complete the dreaded body composition.
The “body comp,” as those in the know like to call it, is a test which reveals approximately how many glasses of red wine and slices of frozen pizza you have consumed in the last eight to twelve months. It is pretty much a lie detector test for personal trainers.
My appointment was scheduled for 11:30am Saturday morning. So, after work on Friday night, I made a point of coming straight home. A) I wished to avoid trouble and B) my intention was to wake up the picture of perfect health. Three hours of Netflix and seventeen glasses of red wine later, I put on my jacket and headed to the Pumpjack on Davie.
The next morning my eyes opened aghast as the clock struck 11:00am. My alarm clock did not go off, primarily due to the fact, I forgot to set it.
Fumbling out of bed and into my Steve Madden loafers, I jogged the seawall in the same Ben Sherman shirt I wore the night before.
With one minute to spare, I sprinted into the change room and whipped Hunter out from over my shoulder. (Now that I have decided to turn over a new leaf in life, Hunter has been moonlighting as a gym bag.) Yanking up my gym shorts, I threw on my grey shirt and tied up my New Balance shoes. Stumbling to the sink, I splashed water in my face and tried to wipe the bloodshot from my eyes.
Reporting to the front desk, I could barely put together a sentence my mouth was so dry.
“Fat test … Rugged Fox … 11:30am” I gasped.
Fortunately, the handsome receptionist could pick up what I was putting down. So, he paged Samantha over the loudspeaker and passed me a large white form to fill out with a pen.
“Complete this self-assessment and Sam will take it from there.” This man was nothing but business.
I looked at the questions and felt my hands start to shake. I had not been this nervous about filling out a form since the last time I got tested for an STI.
NAME: Rugged Fox, obvs
AGE: 27
SEX: Not in the last six months
DO YOU DRINK? Yes
IF YOU ANSWERED YES, HOW OFTEN? Often
DO YOU SMOKE? Only when I drink
A finger tapped on my right shoulder, and I turned around to see the lady of the hour. Samantha was nothing like I had expected her to be. I had anticipated a 5 foot 3, ponytailed brunette who had enough energy to fuel a back-up generator for a year. The woman standing in front of me, however, was surprisingly calm.
“So how long have you been a member?” she asked, inviting me to take a seat in her office.
“Six days.”
“Have you had a membership to another gym before?”
“Yes.”
“What made you stop going?”
“Life.”
I liked this fitness instructor. She was a straight shooter. Sitting behind her desk, she read over all the clever answers to my questions and then proceeded to ask me several more.
“How do you control your stress level working as a restaurant manager?”
“Easy,” I said pulling out my iPhone. I then showed her a picture of my favourite bottle of French grenache.
“What is your relationship with food like?”
Wiping a single tear from my eye, I took a deep breath. I then went into great detail about my recent divorce from chicken parmesan and my ongoing struggle with frozen pizza. I felt my performance was dramatic enough that Samantha was going to let me off the hook for the body comp; but that was not the case.
“Now, just put your two feet on here,” she said, pulling out a scale. “Don’t worry about taking your shoes off.”
“Meryl Streep help me,” I whispered.
Stepping on to the machine, beads of sweat dripped down my forehead.
“Promise me you will subtract two pounds for my runners.”
“You have nothing to worry about.”
“PROMISE ME!” I screamed.
“Alright … I promise.”
“Thank you.”
The scale beeped and I sat back down.
The next part of the test was the heart rate and love handle calculation. Returning to my seat, I placed my arm through a grip in front of me and rested my palm on a metal sensor. My shoulders grew tense as I felt the brace grow tighter around my forearm. It was at that point I flashed back to the very first time I took this test. It was two days after I turned 24 and not even two months since I had moved to Vancouver. I was malnourished, underweight and severely dehydrated. Those were the days, I sighed.
The grip released and the computer screen suddenly lit up while the printer spit out pages. The jury was out folks we have a verdict!
To my complete surprise, the test results were not as devastating as I thought. Although, it was true I did gain eighteen pounds since I changed jobs, my heart was beating, and my body fat percentage was still under three digits. That said, I am fairly sure the machine was broken, because it also told me I was hydrated, which was preposterous.
When all was said and done, Samantha wished me an excellent work-out and I proceeded to directly to the showers.
Afterwards, I left the gym and walked next door to de Dutch for breakfast. Ordering an orange juice, I kindly refused the server after she tried to up sell me to a mimosa.
“Baby steps Mr. Fox, baby steps.”
